


the fabric of your flesh

by sleeponrooftops



Series: don't turn off the lights [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, SPOILERS SO MANY SPOILERS, boys platonically cuddling, gore and violence in nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeponrooftops/pseuds/sleeponrooftops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A heartbeat later, he starts screaming, this dull roar as he fights against the person holding him, lashing out, his hand slippery with blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fabric of your flesh

It starts to happen on winter break.  They get two weeks off, which really just seems idiotic because it’s _Christmas_ , and Stiles wants to spend _at least_ a month doing absolutely nothing but sitting around in his pajamas, drinking hot cocoa, and watching the most ridiculous holiday movies he can find.  To top things off, they only get out of school on the twentieth, so Stiles is stuck doing all his last minute shopping _last minute_.  He’s already done most of it online, went on a splurge in November, but his dad always forgets to go until Stiles reminds him, and so that’s why he’s waking up early on their first day off—which is a Saturday, granted, but _still_ —and dragging himself downstairs.

 

His dad has already been up for an hour, making a big breakfast, and it makes Stiles smile as he sees it all laid out on the island, though his chest aches a little, too, and he reaches up a hand to rub against it.  When he was little, before everything, his mom used to make huge breakfasts every weekend, and he would never be able to stay asleep once he smelled her amazing cooking wafting up the stairs.  He’d always end up getting in the way until she would recruit him to help her, and then he’d get distracted after a few minutes and go to wake up his dad, and then they’d all make breakfast together, and it hurts a little to just see his dad at the stove.

 

“Hey,” Stiles says, stepping up next to him and reaching over to pick up a wooden spatula before he gets to work sautéing some vegetables.  His mom’s breakfasts had never really made sense to other people.  He still remembers the first time Scott came over for one of them, when they were a little bit older, remembers his face as he’d looked strangely at the plate of vegetables and the peppers mixed in with the hash browns and the multigrain toast.

 

“Dude,” he’d said, looking over at Stiles, “My mom is so lame when she cooks breakfast.”

 

Stiles had just smiled because his mom always made everything so _colorful_ , and he was always so proud to show her off.

 

Stiles looks up as the doorbell rings, and then over at his dad, who just keeps humming to himself, and then Stiles looks at the table and notices how many plates are there.  “Dad,” he says slowly, “Who’s coming over?”

 

“Just a few people,” his dad says, “Why don’t you get the door?”

 

Stiles narrows his eyes at him briefly before moving away, and he pads out into the hallway, still in his plaid pants and loose t-shirt, and, when he opens the door, he can’t help but grin.  “Dude,” he says when Scott beams goofily at him.

 

“ _Damn_ , it smells good,” Scott says, stepping past him.  Isaac and Melissa follow, and they’re all in their pajamas, as well, and Stiles is a little shell-shocked, just kind of _staring_.

 

He’s about to close the door when he hears a car, and he turns, baffled as he watches Allison get out.  “Dad!” he calls, open-mouthed.

 

Scott appears at his shoulder, nudging him before he leans against the wall.  “He thought it would be good to have everyone over for a famous Stilinski breakfast.  You know, get the pack together, start the healing process.”

 

“ _Everyone_?” Stiles squeaks, looking back at Scott.

 

Scott just nods toward the doorway, and Stiles looks back to find that Lydia has appeared with Allison, Chris trailing behind them, in their pajamas, as well, and then he can’t help but smile.  Chris says hello, Allison smiles at Scott, and Lydia stops in front of Stiles, hands in the pockets of her jacket.  “Hey,” she says softly, and Stiles wants to kiss her so bad, wants to pull her close to him and hold on, so instead he just smiles and reaches for her hand, pulling her inside.

 

Breakfast is amazing.  Stiles can’t remember the last time there were so many people at the island, laughing and talking, and he feels warm inside as he goes to help his dad finish cooking and set the table.  Scott and Lydia help some, and, when they’re all finally sitting and eating, Stiles just looks around and realizes, as Scott bursts into laughter at something Isaac’s said, as Lydia whispers to Allison, who grins widely, as Melissa and Chris chatter with his dad, that he’s _home_ , that this is his pack, and he’s going to be okay.

 

In typical Stiles fashion, as soon as he feels safe, dread settles like a pit in his stomach.

 

The dread doesn’t start until later, though, not until after the pack breakfast, after Christmas shopping with his dad, after spending the afternoon with Scott and Isaac, just hanging out, not until after it all, when Stiles and his dad decide to rent a movie, order in Chinese, and spend the night together.  They decide on _The Purge_ because Stiles never got to see it and his dad actually showed an interest.

 

They settle in, white containers spread out over the coffee table, and Stiles wrapped up in a fleece blanket while he hoards most of the pillows.  They end up being disturbed enough that, after a lengthy discussion of the movie, Stiles’ dad finds a sitcom marathon while Stiles makes tea.

 

It happens that Stiles falls asleep almost as soon as he finishes his tea, curled up on the sofa, though mostly on his dad, who has an arm resting along Stiles’ back, a protective barrier against the world.

 

Stiles drifts off feeling warm and heavy, sinking into darkness, settling into something safe and calm until he opens his eyes.  As soon as he blinks away the darkness of slumber, he’s cold.

 

Stiles shivers, looking around at the thick forest he’s woken up in.  “Dad?” he calls quietly, rubbing at his arms.

 

His voice echoes loudly, and he jumps at the sound.  It rushes back, screaming at him, and Stiles shouts, dropping to the ground and covering his head.  The echo presses against him like a physical weight, pushing against his curved back until Stiles gasps and throws his hands down to hold himself up.

 

The ground is black and sticky.

 

Stiles jerks back, but his hands remain, sinking up to his wrists.  He pulls, arms straining, but it only makes him sink further.  His breath starts to pick up, fast bursts that make his chest ache, his shoulders twitching violently with every inhale until he’s black up to his elbows.  He looks up, trying to find something to help him, but there’s a face staring back at him, distorted, and Stiles screams, “ _Dad_!”

 

Hands come up out of the black, grasping at him and pulling, and Stiles pulls back, his voice getting higher and louder until they close around his mouth, suffocating him, two coming up around to curve around his neck, and then he’s pulled under.

 

He wakes screaming.

 

He ends up on the floor, hitting the coffee table so that it screeches across the floor, and, when his voice tapers out, the silence remains.  The echo of his scream rings in his ears, buzzing, as Stiles picks himself up, shaking.  The sofa is no longer next to him—instead, the room is empty, the furniture pushed back to the walls, white sheets over them.  Stiles looks up toward the window, which is shattered, letting a pale sliver of moonlight through.

 

He heaves himself upright and goes over to it, staggering and crashing into the wall.  He stares out at the dark night, and he’s not in his house anymore, he realizes, but in _Derek’s_.  The forest surrounds them, and he pushes away from the wall, frowning as he looks out.

 

Something skitters across the ground behind him, and Stiles whips around to find Deucalion, black and feral and terrifying, staring at him with his bloodshot eyes.  Deucalion grins and then lunges, and Stiles stumbles backward, screaming.  His hand catches on the broken window, slicing open his palm, and then he’s falling out of the window.

 

He doesn’t hit the ground, just keeps falling, twisting through the air until he sees black water looming up ahead, and he fights, trying desperately to grab onto something, anything, but the air is so tight and hot, and his throat feels like it’s on fire.  Something grips his arms, squeezing tightly, shaking, and then he hears, as though through a fog, “ _Stiles_!”

 

Stiles’ head snaps around to the direction of the yell, and light floods his vision as he’s suddenly in his kitchen.  A heartbeat later, he starts screaming, this dull roar as he fights against the person holding him, lashing out, his hand slippery with blood.

 

“Stiles!” his dad shouts, grabbing at him, pulling at his arms until he’s got him pinned, but then Stiles kicks out, sending them sprawling, and his head bounces off the island before he hits the ground.

 

His dad stares at him, this crumbled heap of a body, not moving, and he just _stares_ until Stiles’ hand twitches, and then he hears, “Dad?” in this tiny voice, something so alike Stiles as a little boy that he hastens to him, pulling Stiles up from the floor and cradling him against him.

 

“Let me see your hand,” he whispers, reaching even as Stiles holds out his bleeding hand.  He holds it gingerly in his own before turning to press a kiss to Stiles’ temple and saying, “You need stitches.”

 

“Dad,” he says weakly, his body heavy against him.

 

“It’s going to be okay, kiddo, I promise.  I’ve got you.  I’m here.  I’ll protect you, I swear to god, Stiles, I’m right here.”

 

Somehow, he gets them up, Stiles’ limp form in his arms, head leaning against his shoulder, and he finds a pair of slippers he can easily slip into before finding his keys and carrying Stiles out to his car.  He deposits him in the passenger seat before running back to the house.  He goes upstairs to pack a quick overnight bag, gets Stiles’ phone from downstairs, finds a real pair of shoes, grabs the fleece blanket, and heads back out, where Stiles is dozing.

 

“Hey, wake up,” his dad says, shaking him lightly, and Stiles comes to with a soft noise, jerking a little.  “You gotta stay awake, Stiles, until we get you to the hospital.”

 

“Dad,” he says, and Stiles’ dad takes a slow breath before dialing Melissa and pulling out.

 

“Sheriff?” Melissa answers, yawning, “Is everything okay?”

 

“No.  I’m taking Stiles to the hospital.  He hurt himself, Melissa, and I don’t even know what happened.  We were on the sofa, and he fell asleep, and he just got up, suddenly, and went into the kitchen—the next thing I knew, he was slashing open his hand with a knife.”

 

“A night terror,” Melissa says, and Stiles’ voice rings in his head as he thinks back to his diagnosis.

 

“He said not yet,” his dad says, barely seeing the road.

 

“I’ll be right there.  He’ll be okay,” and then she’s gone, and Stiles’ dad isn’t sure how he makes it to the hospital, but, halfway there, Stiles reaches over, fingers trembling, the other one cradled against his chest, and his dad holds his hand tightly.

 

Hours later, when Stiles wakes, it’s to filtered light.  He wakes slowly, coming up out of a drug-induced slumber, his whole body aching, his left hand throbbing.  He turns his head to the side, and his dad is asleep in the chair next to his hospital bed, snoring lightly.

 

“Dad,” he says softly, his voice croaking.  His throat sears with pain, and he groans, reaching up his good hand to rub at it.

 

The door opens, and Melissa comes in, smiling.  “Hey, sweetheart, how are you feeling?” she asks, coming over.

 

“Exhausted,” Stiles admits, and Melissa puts his file down before pouring him a glass of water.

 

He drinks it gratefully as she picks his file back up.  “Policy says your dad needs to be awake for this, but I know you’ll tell him.”  Stiles nods, waiting for her to continue, “Your cut up your hand pretty bad, Stiles.  You would’ve lost it if your dad hadn’t found you right when it happened.  Do _you_ know what happened?”

 

“I fell through the window,” Stiles murmurs, frowning and looking away, “My hand cut on the glass.”

 

“Was that part of the dream?”

 

Stiles nods, looking back up.  “It wasn’t a nightmare, was it?” he asks, and Melissa sighs as she sees panic creeping into his expression.

 

She comes over, sitting at his side and laying a hand over his.  “You’re going to be okay, Stiles.  We’re going to figure this out.”

 

“No,” he says, shaking his head, “We’re not.  They’ve never been like this before.  They’ve never been _night terrors_ before.  We did something that night.  Deaton said there would be side effects, that there would be a darkness.”  Stiles’ eyes go wide suddenly, and he pulls his hand away from Melissa.  “This is only the beginning,” he says, and Melissa finds she has nothing to say in response, just stares at him with an open kind of fear.

**Author's Note:**

> Eventually, I’m going to get to 3b. This was supposed to be the opening episode of 3b, and then I got distracted, and then it didn’t happen, but I swear to god, the next one is going to be 3b because this is a perfect segue way into it. Also, I am so sorry this took so long again. I mean, I did warn you guys. I’m officially moved back into school, though, and it doesn’t look like my classes will be too hard—though I’ve only had two thus far, so we’ll see—so hopefully things will pick up. I am still writing other fics, though. I’ve got the through-the-seasons sciles that I’ve slowly been chipping away at, the stydia sequel, and I’m actually beginning a Scott/Isaac, so we’ll see where that goes. Anyway, it’s late, and I have an early class tomorrow, so I’m off to bed. Don’t forget to leave your thoughts!


End file.
